


everything was beautiful (and also hurt)

by natalunasans



Series: Ownership Enough [28]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Aromantic, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Bathing/Washing, Breakfast, Caretaking, Character Development, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Convivencia, Coping, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Dream Sharing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Music, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Nonbinary Character, Other, Painkillers, Post-Episode: s04e17-e18 The End of Time, Relationship Negotiation, Secrets, Slice of Life, Telepathic Bond, Telepathy, Time War Angst, but like way less than before, internalized ableism, quality of life, self-soothing, whatever gallifreyans do instead of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-30 17:05:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10881195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalunasans/pseuds/natalunasans
Summary: a day in the life... (with some tangents)





	1. running just to keep your back in view

"Master!  Wake up!"

He tried to hide in the dark warmth under the duvet, but wasn't quick enough.

"Come on! Up and at'em!" The Doctor was tugging at the covers; he could hear the smile in their voice. They must have slept well, so at least his dreamleading had been effective. The Master now felt his efforts had backfired, though. They were a little too ready for this day, maybe even this week.

"Let me be!" he said just loud enough to wish he hadn't made a sound. There was a shooting pain from his right temple all down one side of his head to his neck, and the noise from the back of his mind was just a little too loud to ignore. Joints and muscles ached as if he'd run a marathon the day before, and he hadn't even run down a TARDIS corridor. This was not going to be a good day. This was shaping up to be an average day: with patience and time, he could do some things.

Fortunately time was something they both had, at least for now. If only the Doctor would stop being so ambitious... or go away and be ambitious somewhere else. Preferably, what was it they said in those amazingly odd Terran movies? _in a galaxy far far away_.

Later, the Master would be? No... in the past he _used to be_ the one with more ambitions on the fate of the universe.  But times had changed for them both. In his case, even the ability to reliably perceive time.

He eventually dragged himself round to a sitting position, putting tentative feet on the cool floor where they recoiled at the temperature contrast.  He sat there for a bit, holding his head... gathering his resolve.  He wasn't well, and he wouldn't be anytime soon, but he was still the Master of survival.  And he wasn't about to let the Doctor or this day get the best of him.

The Doctor bounded back over to the bed and plopped down beside him, for all the world like a bouncing (greyhound?) puppy that wanted to be taken out to play.  He was half surprised they didn't start licking his face.  They did rub his back, and he let them, even leant into their arm a little, grunting slightly in grudging appreciation. Their minds met, fuzzily through the filter of fabric and groggy morning, but a little of the Master's pain and frustration crossed paths with some of the Doctor's enthusiasm and optimism.  The two inner voices reached a compromise that they could never have got to if limited to spoken words, their impatience and his anger already fading.

The Doctor stood, turned, and held out their hands. In spite of himself, the Master reached out his own and was hauled up into a bear-hug.  He still always craved deep pressure; even when it hurt, it helped him feel his surroundings and himself more real. He buried his face into their old dark blue shirt -soft like only worn out cotton could be- and let the unmistakable warmly sweet smell of the Doctor reorient him. He felt their hands clasp behind his spine, and... yes!  an expert shift in the pressure clunked some vertebrae back into place.

 _Remember?_ The Master flashed his amateur chiropractor a multi-sensory memory. For a moment the tables were turned, as both re-experienced an even taller white-haired Doctor lying on the floor at UNIT HQ having their back adjusted by an even shorter and more bearded Master. The sharp smell of their cologne merging with the heavier odour of his cigars. His black-gloved hands realigning their spine; their burgundy velvet jacket whose plush texture he could almost feel through the soft leather. The athletic strength of their shoulders despite that body's propensity to dislocate a few bones at the most (in)convenient of times, the strong precision of his own hands knowing just what to do about it. The rush of adrenaline in both their systems when neither knew if the next moment they'd be allies or back at each other's throats. Schrödinger's frenemies, Earth kids might call it now.

They returned to their current selves with mixed nostalgia and relief. They may both have been more elegant, more confident, and more powerful back then, but in those days it had always been about crashing into each other's lives and running away again, like children dashing each other's sandcastles on some beach that stretched across the worlds... Now, after how many lifetimes, at last they had a more permanent arrangement, for once a resting place.

 _If only the Doctor would actually rest occasionally_ , he thought as they unlinked and he stumbled towards the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part of this chapter is indebted to ["Amateur Chiropractor" by Verabird](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3766651)


	2. one more cup of coffee for the road

The Master regretted not planting any ideas in the Doctor's mind this sleep.  He could have caused them to wake up with the desire to spend all day warm and cozy under blankets, only leaving to return with breakfast in bed as if by magic.  

As it was, he headed for the kitchen; the Doctor slapped his bum on the way out into the corridor.  He turned to glare at them but found his face softening almost against his will at the sight of their cheeky grin. 

There was coffee, tea, and hot buttered toast.  The Master helped himself to a mug, and two slices with honey.   Was it silly he always chose that spread?  He breathed in; breakfast smelt of coffee and the Doctor.

Neither of them would eat much; the Doctor didn't need it and the Master still couldn't digest a lot at a time.   He was almost glad he couldn't remember much about how he'd cocked-up his digestive system in the days after the botched resurrection, as much of that time had been lost in the damage done by the leaking energy.  He had a feeling whatever he'd done had somehow also offended their humans, because the Doctor had got quite upset trying to remind him, and he'd let the subject drop.  One day they'd probably tell him accidentally, in anger, and he'd likely wish he never found out.  It must have been something terribly unhygienic.

Today, though, they sat in companionable verbal silence, whilst background noise from both their minds nearly drowned out the crunching and sipping sounds of breakfast.  The Doctor wanted to get back to work on the Very Important Device they'd been building last week. The Master's brain was heavy with static but his own plans nudged out a lot of the pain signals.  He was glad at least they wouldn't try to drag him outside today.  If he could force himself to concentrate, he'd have time to work on projects of his own whenever the Doctor wasn't needing his help.


	3. looking for some better day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the master figures out something for himself that he could have just looked up... if he thought humans had anything useful to say on the matter

In the past, the Master's schemes had always involved some level of domination, of gaining control over something or someone.  This was still the case; only his focus had changed.  He still loved a good mental puzzle, but politics or even world domination were nothing compared to how complicated chronic pain was proving to be.  He'd always operated on the idea that people and systems (no matter which world or species) could be predicted, and what you could learn to predict you could learn to control.  He'd charted carefully all the good days and all the bad days in the past Gallifreyan year, and many patterns were emerging.

It wasn't possible to completely eliminate the pain without regeneration, and that was impossible without the Timelords Council.  But he reckoned he could rig a system whereby he always had a certain number of good days and a certain number of bad days in a certain succession.  This would make everything... not better, exactly, but so much neater and more predictable.  He could feel in control.  He would be able to make plans with the Doctor and have proper adventures... provided they didn't last more than about three days per Gallifreyan month.

Say he had six units of energy for an average day, so an especially bad day might be zero to two and the rare good day closer to ten.  It was rather like rationing batteries if you had to run a device without an outside power source. But some things absolutely needed to be done, and there also wasn't any way to generate extra power or buy batteries. You could sometimes save them up the day before, but the most common was to nick them off your future self.  In a way, chronic illness was a bit like time travel, or maybe it was more like the regeneration system, with some of the same risks of using up your own remaining lives or creating paradoxes.

The worst variable, of course, was the unpredictability of life, as anything unexpected could ruin the whole scheme.  It was hard to imagine a more unpredictable life than the Doctor's, and just like it used to be with his plans for controlling groups of people, it was often the Doctor or even the TARDIS who generated the random events that ended up throwing a spanner in everything.


	4. did you forget to take your meds?

In an everyday sense, pain was manageable to an extent, but it always took a bit of organising. The Doctor could do some pain control telepathically, and in general it worked better than physical drugs, but there was still the problem of building up resistance, so they had to be careful. Timing was also important. The Master had learned the hard way that if he put off asking for help and missed the crucial moment in the progress of a flare-up, even telepathy wouldn't be effective.

So he'd swallow his shame and signal the Doctor in a way that they'd worked out together so that he didn't have to ask verbally. Because of who they were, the code of course involved a complex visual pun based on Gallifreyan electronics terminology, maths, and a euphemism for pain. In Earth English words, imagine something like “4-0 MegaHertz”, but trust that it loses much of the hilarity in translation. He'd just flash them the memory of the original joke and they'd get to work.

So if the pain suddenly got a lot worse, he'd ask for help, hopefully soon enough.  If it increased gradually, though, or if he'd been distracted by work, he might miss the window of opportunity and end up without much recourse except resting.  Sometimes the Doctor could knock him out, but even that was not guaranteed to work... and they worried it was dangerous for him to spend too much more time unconscious.

There were also things he could do to minimise triggering an episode. Generally they involved trying not to exert himself mentally or physically, trying to stay as comfortable as possible. This made it difficult or impossible to participate in the Doctor's adventures on their travels, and often left him stuck, bored and lonely, waiting in the TARDIS. On the other hand, if he was lucky enough to be able to concentrate that day, he could use these times to work on the projects he didn't tell the Doctor about.  

As a way of organising his life inside the ship, it wasn't that bad. His upper-class origins had given him a taste for comfort anyway, and somewhere in the near-infinite rooms of the TARDIS was every accommodation he could want, provided she didn't hide the things he needed. As long as he and the Doctor were getting along well, the ship didn't give him too much trouble, but when they quarrelled, she always protected her symbiote and took petty revenge on the Master.

When the pair of them were at peace and working together inside the ship, they could interact almost like equals again, at least until something happened to emphasize the imbalance.

In the electronics lab, the Doctor's projects took up a little over half the space, but the Master had his own ample area where he could work in comfort. Concentrating wasn't always possible, but when he could, he found that it was a good way to distract himself. The only bad part was that he could use up a lot of energy units this way, and that sometimes he didn't notice the pain until it was too late to get help.  

He shifted his body in the task-chair, trying to get at least marginally comfortable. A certain level of muscle and joint pain had become just background... not unlike the noise in his mind.

The coffee at breakfast had helped his headache a little, but not enough. Before drinking the second cup he'd brought along, he held it against his temple where the pain was sharpest. The heat and pressure gave some relief, but then the Doctor happened to look over at him.

"You know the crockery aren't telepathic anymore, right? After... what happened a few months ago, I had to replace them with plain ceramic."

"O _kay_?!", said the Master, hoping they'd either figure it out or drop the topic, and rolled his eyes. He instantly regretted the gesture as it sent swirls of pain through the area around the optic nerves.  

The Doctor saw him wince, and swore under their breath by way of sympathy.

They came over and put their hands lightly on his shoulders, implying a question. He agreed by trying to relax into their touch. They started massaging his shoulders, kneading the tight spots and rubbing out the sore muscles. With their thumbs exploring the base of his skull, they made contact: _How bad is it today?_

He opened a few more mental barriers and let them feel his pain and noise levels. They always seemed surprised how much he could bear, but for him this was the new normal; other choices were limited. And it wasn't like he hadn't lived in damaged bodies before.


	5. i'll let you be in my dreams if i can be in yours

 

Strange figures swirled around the cabinets in the lab, and the Doctor's voice turned to nonsense syllables. The Master's head lolled forward and he snapped it back up with a start. The Doctor kept right on talking and massaging, but he could feel them trying not to laugh. At least they tried.

It wasn't that uncommon for him to doze off while working. Dreamleading or not, he rarely managed to sleep even as much as Gallifreyan instinct dictated. 

* * *

 

The Master had been in the TARDIS for some months before he began to realise that the Doctor was sleeping even less than he was. Only when they'd missed several weeks of sleep and finally passed out from exhaustion, he'd felt their nightmares on the shared wavelength and heard them scream themself awake.

The Doctor was more or less keeping him alive, and one of the few things the Master could do to even the score was dreamleading. They both knew how good he was at it, and how much better his telepathic skills were now than ages ago at the Academy. 

Even back then, there had been insomnia and guilt and flashbacks... ever since they'd all been forced to make eye contact with space-time itself, but especially after That Incident. Even as children, dreamsharing had helped the two of them escape so many difficult nights. And of course later they'd experimented with (and on) each other's minds in ways both pleasurable and terrifying. So many lives later, their brains still knew each other's biodata literally inside out.

But now the Doctor was understandably wary of leaving their unshielded mind vulnerable, especially to such a skilled telepath (and one with so much vested interest) as the Master. The events of the diamond planet were still vivid in their memory and their biggest fear was having their consciousness taken over by a force who could make full use of it. As much as they'd decided to trust him, he still was the very definition of such a force. The question even flashed through their mind: that entity on Midnight -- had it been him?

He never entirely convinced them, which was probably for the best. That way they couldn't blame his powers of persuasion if it didn't work out. Instead, debilitating fatigue finally made them desperate enough to come to him of their own volition. It made a nice change that finally the Doctor was the one who had to swallow their pride and ask for help.

In dreams they'd travel together, back to their innocence, back before the responsibility of the untempered schism, before bullying and death, before politics and crime, before adventure and chase, before the war and the drums and Gallifrey's fall... Before everything that had made them who they now were. The red fields and the sky full of almost unknown constellations and galaxies were theirs to explore, and all was still full of hope and promise.  Waking from this was too painful for them both, the Master had found, unless he _wanted_ the Doctor sad and desperate. And there was usually no need for that. So he'd fade out the nostalgia and transition them into a dreamless peace for the remainder of the night.

Seeing the Doctor wake up refreshed and ready to face the world was a different kind of victory: you could tell they hadn't rested like that in years. They needed him for something; there were things they couldn't do right without him.

From then on, they'd slept together, as a matter of course. Literally slept, as they both needed rest so badly. The last time they'd actually trusted each other freely still seemed a distant memory lost to Time and Death... They'd had to validate the results of the ongoing experiment before proceeding further in their research.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter references some of the events recounted in the BigFinish audiodrama "Master" but i don't commit to them having actually happened the way the narrator told it. after all, the 7th Doctor is very probably an unreliable narrator and has plenty of in-context reasons to make themself sound more terrifying. so maybe that thing happened but maybe it was not deliberate or maybe it was both of them or maybe it was the master. and maybe it was selfdefence. or maybe it didn't happen like that at all. but _something_ terrible happened with bullies when they were at school together. that's all i will commit to accepting as canon.


	6. dream brother, my killer, my lover

This previous night, his own anxiousness had woken him in the middle of easing the Doctor's insomnia. His telepathic reflexes seemed to be the only thing good as new, and he was able to shield the starting panic before even properly waking up. When he felt it coming on, he'd guided the Doctor's mind back into that quiet, dreamless place. He unlinked carefully and moved slightly away from them in the bed, so as not to share the panic. They murmured an unintelligible complaint, but didn’t wake.

Out of direct contact with them, his mind was left alone and cold. But if he couldn't control the anxiety, at least he could limit it to his own mind. He tried to shield well so that it wouldn't leak out loudly into their common wavelength and wake the Doctor. And when the first waves of dread came over him, increasing his heartsrates and speeding up his breathing, despite the uncomfortable pressure, he was almost glad of the warm flush of increased blood flow. He curled up as tight as possible, hugging his knees to his chest, felt the fabric of his jeans and the pressure of his limbs on each other: trying to feel his own physical reality underlying the panic.

Among unspecific worries, was always the very particular fear of losing... all this. He didn't dare define what precisely they had, but he knew with a terrifying certainty that for the first time in his many lives, he truly had something to lose. All his energies, previously directed at catching the Doctor's attention, were now focussed on keeping it. The prospect of being abandoned again, and worst of all the possibility of _provoking_ the Doctor to discard him, frightened him more than all the losses he'd known in the TimeWar.

In the dark, the illusion of glittering lights around the edges of his peripheral vision shone much more impressively than in daylight. He tried to focus on how fascinating it was. When dizziness hit, he was glad to be in the bed instead of standing. Sometimes panic attacks combined with his already wonky balance had landed him in an awkward heap on the floor; fresh bruises were not his preferred way to re-attach himself to reality.

After a while, he had no idea how long, the anxiety subsided to normal levels, leaving him exhausted and cold but still mentally watchful. Panic had made it easy to overlook physical pain, but now that his mind began to quieten, joint and muscle discomfort filled in the available sensory gaps.

When he was sure there was no more terror leaking out of his mind, he'd sidled up to the Doctor again. Without waking, they'd automatically shifted to drape one arm and one leg over him and hold him close. The Master snuggled gratefully into their relative warmth. If he couldn't sleep, at least he could rest.


	7. the beat goes on

How to describe the 'drums'? It sounded like the part of a panic attack when your own blood beats in your ears and everything (your boots pounding the hard ground, your fear, the hoofbeats -metaphorical or not- of what's pursuing you), all become one rhythm, accelerating until you feel you must burst with the pulse of it. And not for just a few minutes (not that he could reliably perceive minutes -or even microspans- anymore), but for always. The fight-or-flight urgency that was so useful in danger, now had no off-switch. Some days the sound was quieter than others, but it was always there, always keeping him on edge, leaving him at minimum tired and irritable, at worst paranoid and exhausted.

And it hurt. Different to the headaches, this wasn't a shooting pain, but more a pressure, always building up but never really releasing.  He'd hoped the noise would make him immune to actual panic attacks, or that they would cancel it out somehow, but no... anxiety just built on what was already there, making it exponentially worse for a little while.

Even when his head ached at the same time, he could use loud music to work around the 'drums'... He'd accidentally got rather attached to Earth music while he was pretending to be a human, so punk or metal, anything loud enough really, became the obvious choices to try to drown it out.  Especially if the Doctor wasn't near, he'd crank the volume and throw himself into whatever songs he had on repeat, as if he were onstage... sometimes even wearing himself out enough to fall asleep. He used up a lot of energy units that way, but it was worth it to feel even simulated relief from the drums.

Sometimes it helped to be able to pretend just for a moment that the ache and pressure came from the volume of the song, that the dizziness and nausea came from dancing too hard, and that it would all finish in 3 to 7 minutes. Because when he finally switched off the sound files player, it was back to remembering that the noise and the pain were part of him, that they reached further inside him than nearly anything else.   

At least for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> headcanons about post-EoT master and music owe a lot to long-ago discussions with @drabriel and @browneyesandpinstripes


	8. picking up pieces of me, picking up pieces of you

The experiment with the fever, where he had managed -at considerable risk- to silence the noise for nearly a day, had given the Master an idea. He wanted to try again, applying extreme heat near just that tiny area of his brain where the ‘drums’ seemed to have been installed. If he could get his old laser screwdriver working, that might be more efficient than anything else. If the Doctor hadn't disabled it any better than they'd hidden it, the device shouldn't be too hard to repair.

But he had to be careful. If the Doctor knew he'd found it, they'd suspect him (not entirely unreasonably) of wanting to use it for something they didn’t approve of.

And if he heated the wrong level of tissue and they caught him with burns at the base of his head, they'd never understand. Probably accuse him of 'self-injuring behaviour' again, and think he had a death-wish or something. They wouldn't be wrong, exactly... it's just that his life-wish (most days, anyway) was stronger.

He could ask them for help again, but they’d already tried together many times to find the source-point, and the Doctor’s guilt just made failure hurt more.

Whilst the Doctor was searching for parts in a storeroom, the Master pulled out the laser device from its new hiding place and had another go, but no matter how hard he concentrated, he was too shaky today to work on delicate electronics. When the Doctor wandered back in, he was glad to scoot his task-chair over to their side and help with troubleshooting that required more hands, but less dexterity.

Maybe his own project could wait. _Practicing amateur brain surgery on oneself using what was basically a semi-functioning weapon_  was a prospect that sounded better on some days than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> other fics' events referred to in this chapter:  
> [fever](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4193181)  
> [selfharm](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7004407)


	9. i will walk down to the end with you, if you will come all the way down with me

“Are you okay?” The Doctor must have noticed how he kept slumping, fidgeting, trying impossibly to arrange his skeleton in some way that hurt less. “I mean…” at least they’d realised the absurdity of the question.

“Not really.” The Master hadn’t the energy to pretend, and barely enough to mock.

“Hey, why don’t you take a hot shower?” They had a point; that helped sometimes.

But he shook his head, exhausted just thinking of the steps involved.

“Ah, come on… I’m a bit pongy myself,” they even sniffed an armpit and widened their eyes theatrically. “I’m sure we could both do with a wash.”

“Too right…” He pinched his nose and pulled a face at the Doctor, but took their arm when offered.

* * *

 

The oval bath had a convenient seat built-in along the back, all tiled in the same metallic-flecked dark glass as the walls. The Master sat and pulled off 3 layers of jumpers. He even let the Doctor dump them in a heap on the floormat instead of folding them neatly himself.

They helped him out of his boots, jeans and pants, then ran the hot water to start warming up the room while they quickly undressed as well.

The Master shivered despite the steamy air: thermoregulation was _supposed to be_ one of the functions of the secondary brain, but his was, of course, damaged.

The Doctor adjusted the warmth of the water, aimed the showerheads at the general direction of the Master’s back, then hopped in to join him where he sat, hunched forward. They soaped up a loofah and gave themself a good scrub round the torso. They offered it to him, but he pushed away the rough texture.

Even the water stung a bit, just from the sensory shock of temperature change; at least it distracted and relaxed his muscles.

The Doctor’s soapy hand was on his shoulder, asking if he’d like them to lather his back. The soap smelt of coffee, another of the Doctor’s oddly thoughtful finds.

_Oh go on then_

They bathed him much more carefully than they had themself. This distracted even more of his senses, especially when they washed his face, gently working the tension out of his jaw, forehead, and temples. Of course, after all this time, there weren’t a lot of surprises, but surprise was overrated. The Doctor surrounded him with their arms, rubbing warmth into his chest and shoulders. He leaned back against them and let the hot water run over his face and down his body.

For touch-telepaths, such a degree of contact was like a broadband connection, especially as neither of them could be bothered to put up much of a mental barrier when they felt this _comfortable_ together. Most of his pain had eased, and even the noise wasn’t that bad just now.

They shared kaleidoscopic sensations, nearly losing track of whose mind and body were which. He tasted the dear chaos of the Doctor’s thoughts, and they traced the careful layout of his. On the palimpsests of discordantly echoed memories, overlapped the strange outlines of worries and hopes. The Master’s world had become so small now, a fraction of a speck of his former ambitions, split down to the basic particles: survival… and the Doctor. Within what could easily have been a prison, he still found whole universes to explore.

As for the Doctor, they were also shrinking their world to meet him halfway; someone with less imagination could have remained bored and resentful. And yet, the Master could read them… appreciating him. Things one would never manage to say in words could be confessed telepathically without embarrassment or confusion. While he was irritated at having put on weight, the Doctor quite liked his new softness. They had started to enjoy his cynical humour about his situation… and their own. Most of all, they were glad of his company; not just relieved at finding another of their kind left, but _him specifically_. His mind still, in spite of everything, fitted well with theirs, and on some level they admitted it.


	10. tonight will be fine (will be fine will be fine) for a while

The irony of telepathic intimacy was that the Master felt the Doctor’s reaction before he registered the change in his own body. Like watching a far-off explosion while waiting for the noise of it, he read them noticing the pain, felt them startle, heard them shout, and only then realised that the stabbing pangs were coming from inside his own head. Before they could  catch him, he slid away from them and stumbled to his feet; grasping his head in both hands, he leaned against the cooler wall out of the way of the water.

The Doctor scrambled over to check on him, but it had all happened so suddenly that the Master hadn’t had a chance to shield the pain, and touching him must have felt like an electrical shock. The Doctor looked around with those big, scared eyes, and finally turned off the shower and grabbed them both some towels, tucking one round his shoulders. “Where did  _ that _ come from?” they whispered.

The Master shrugged. Did it matter? In this body especially, there was always something going wrong; you just went forward however you could. Surely the Doctor, of all people, should understand the need for improvisation. He pressed his head against the tiles for a little while in silence. The Doctor presumably stayed staring at his back, as the psychic wavelength fairly rang with their anxiousness.

That sudden shooting pain was already receding to a dull ache, but the mood was definitely broken. 

He tried drying his hair and found patting the towel to his head didn’t hurt  _ too _ much. Before he’d even noticed he was shivering, the Doctor was already handing him a voluminous bathrobe. He shrugged into it contentedly, and turned back to look up at them. 

They seemed much more shaken than he was. “I’m so--” 

The Master stopped the Doctor’s words gently, although their lips still transmitted regret into his fingertips. He traced the lines of their mouth and felt one corner twitch, caught the rush of confused emotions they still weren’t shielding.

He cupped their chin with one hand and ran the other through their still-damp hair, making it stick up every which way, and at the same time sending reassurances through their scalp. 

“Some things may be your fault, Doctor.  _ Many _ things, even.” He paused, trying to find the right amount of snark to balance the fondness of what he was saying telepathically, “But there’s a reason I’m still here.”

“But I can’t h… I haven’t been able to… Oh, Master…” As their mind filled in the parts they couldn’t bear to speak, tears pooled in their eyes and spilled over worry-darkened lower lids onto already wet cheeks.

The Master lifted a corner of the towel draped round the Doctor’s shoulders and dabbed at their face, even the droplet at the end of their nose.

“Shush. I’ve stayed because…” he flashed them that grin that worked nearly every time, “someone’s got to look after you.” 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to all the spoonie friends who helped me with ideas for this and also to everybody who read it when i was scared to post it, especially routcliffe for convincing me


End file.
